


the way road doves do it

by kingandqueeninthenorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Americana, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Petyr is baaad be warned, Sibling Incest, The 2nd roadtrip AU nobody asked for!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7382563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingandqueeninthenorth/pseuds/kingandqueeninthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The diner is small, and mostly empty, so the sound of the small radio behind the counter carries through the air. Sansa Stark: seventeen, five feet nine inches tall, blue eyed with auburn hair, last seen wearing a white tennis skirt and a pink blouse, is suspected to be in the company of her brother, Robb Stark: twenty, six feet tall, blue eyed with auburn hair, last seen wearing…</p>
            </blockquote>





	the way road doves do it

_Bang._

It does not frighten her.

That in itself is frightening.

 

+

 

“Lock the doors.”

He leaves her sitting there, alone in his running car. They’re at the edge of Chicago, on their way out, at some little pharmacy for God only knows what. He had promised to be in and out, but as she locks the doors, she wonders if there will ever be a time when ‘in and out’ will be reassuring, or if he will ever not ask her to lock the doors again.

So she sits in the passenger seat and waits, drumming her fingers on her leg as she studies the faces of each passerby through her brother’s tinted windows. She looks anywhere that isn’t the glove compartment, all too aware of what’s in there and what he – they? – had done with it.

 _There is no_ he a _nymore,_ Sansa thinks. _There is no_ me _. There is only_ us.

He returns to her with a box of hair dye, a pair of electric hair clippers, and a bag of lemon drops.

 

+

 

Sitting there, on the bathroom floor, with her knees to her chest and her hand cupped over her mouth as she spoke into the phone, was not a high point in her life.

Though it wasn’t the lowest she would sink either.

She could hear the front door opening, could count the number of his measured, even steps to the kitchen. The whole house seemed to tremble upon his arrival. He was home, and her mother was drunk as a skunk once again, and she was certain that he would be headed straight for her once he realized it.

“He’s home,” she whispered. Her hands began to shake, quivering as she reached up from the floor to the lock on the door, checking it for the third time since she had shut herself in.

“Only fifteen minutes more, Sansa,” Robb assured from the other end. “Less, if I can avoid the red light at the intersection.”

She pushed herself backwards, sliding on her bottom across the tile floor as she pressed her back into the tub. “I don’t know if I have fifteen minutes.”

“Stall him,” he urged. “I know that you can.”

Sansa could hear the light, casual footsteps as they passed through the kitchen and then up the stairs, to where she knew that he would find her mother. Catelyn Stark was lying on her bed, fully clothed with one shoe on and one shoe off, the neck of the wine bottle still tight in her grasp. The pills were on her nightstand, which meant she probably wouldn’t be up until later that night, or even early the next morning.

It was more than enough time. He had never needed that long before.

The sound of his footsteps returning, with the telltale bounce of both liberation and anticipation, gave him away.

“I have to go.”

 

+

 

Robb eats French fries with the same hand that held the gun that killed Petyr Baelish.

She sips her lemonade through a straw and watches as he picks up each fry, dunking it in cheese before tossing it into his mouth. He chews casually, as though he doesn’t remember yesterday. He isn’t shaking either, as he had been before. He only stares at her, unblinking, as though he is waiting for her to do something he is trying to be prepared for.

“Are you afraid?”

“Not anymore,” she tells him. It is the truth.

The diner is small, and mostly empty, so the sound of the small radio behind the counter carries through the air. _Sansa Stark: seventeen, five feet nine inches tall, blue eyed with auburn hair, last seen wearing a white tennis skirt and a pink blouse, is suspected to be in the company of her brother, Robb Stark: twenty, six feet tall, blue eyed with auburn hair, last seen wearing…_

Sansa drops her sunglasses over her eyes.

 

+

 

She sucks on lemon drops while Robb dyes her hair.

Blue eyes meet blue in the motel mirror, neither pair blinking. Robb’s gloved hands move through her sticky hair. Her face is streaked by the dye, the excess running down her cheeks and dripping onto her bare shoulders.

She had warned him of this and he had agreed it would be messy, so she stripped down to nothing but her bra and panties.

“They’re the only clothes I have right now,” she had reminded him.

_And we are close enough for this by now, aren’t we?_

She has no secrets anymore. There is nothing to hide from him, and nothing that she would want to hide from him, anyway.

_Look at what secrets have done to us so far._

She meets his gaze in the mirror again and he does not shy away.

 

+

 

She cannot say who might miss Petyr Baelish.

She replays it over and over again in her head. It seems silly, in retrospect, to have been so afraid of him. He was only a man. It had only taken one bullet.

Even after he had fallen, a part of her had expected him to get back up, like the invincible, monstrous villain he so often seemed to be.

But he hadn’t.

 

+

 

Once the darkness in her hair has settled, and her shower water runs clear the next day, he decides she must lose a few inches to further distance herself from the girl she was before. He chops it straight across, blunt and even. It falls about her shoulders, new and different and entirely unwelcome.

She runs her fingers through it. “When are you going to change something?

_When are you going to suffer something?_

“As soon as we adjust to this, Sansa.”

_I am always the first to feel it._

“Don’t call me Sansa.”

She thinks it best to forget Sansa Stark entirely.

 

+

 

Robb buys her a pair of denim shorts, a vast array of tank tops, and a pair of Chuck Taylors. They aren’t things Sansa would’ve worn and that’s the point, she suspects. He tosses them to her when he returns to their newest motel room and she changes begrudgingly, trying to forget her blouses and skirts and dresses. She doesn’t need to be pretty anymore. She _isn’t_ pretty anymore. Her hair is dull, and her skin is most always covered with a sticky sheen of sweat. She is constantly dirty, disheveled, and desperate for something she can’t name.

She hardly recognizes her reflection in the mirror. She’s brunette now, with shorter hair than she’s had in years. She feels strange in her new clothes, not at all like herself, but she has no other choice and she knows that she has no one to impress these days, anyway.

There is only Robb.

 

+

 

She sits beside him with her feet propped up on the dash, her small pile of new clothes bunched up inside a drawstring sack on her lap. She looks at it sadly, thinking of how her life fits all in one bag now: a tiny travel toothbrush, a miniature hairbrush, a sample size of deodorant…

He looks at her from the corner of his eye and she pretends not to notice. “We should toss your blouse,” he says. “And your skirt.”

 _The last of me,_ she thinks. _The last of Sansa, of who I used to be._

“But we just washed them at the hotel.”

“They’re recognizable,” he tells her.

“And so is the gun, but we haven’t tossed that either.”

He taps the steering wheel impatiently. She can tell her older brother has had it with her constant _where are we going_ and _I’m hungry._ She suspects he has even less patience when it comes to snappy remarks on his decision making. “We don’t know when we might need it again.”

Sansa’s head rings like a bell.

 

+

 

She helps him buzz his hair short, trying to be calm about the way things are changing.

 

+

 

“Get away from her.”

Over Petyr’s shoulder, she could see her brother standing there, pointing the gun at both of them. The older man did not seem surprised, nor did he seem to be in any rush to turn to face the voice. He lifted up from her slowly, sliding one hand out from her skirt and the other from underneath her shirt. He straightened himself, lip curling upward, and then slowly turned to meet Robb. His hands were raised, though just barely, as though he might deny what had been happening even as he surrendered.

Sansa pushed herself up off the bed with her hands, off her back, tugging her shirt down and her skirt up.

“Sansa,” Robb said, all very calmly. “Get away from him.”

She swung one leg over the bed at a time, slowly moving out of Robb’s range. She watched Petyr from the corner of her eye, waiting for him to jump up and grab her, prepared to use her as a human shield.

“Stand back.”

She wondered how Robb’s aim was, or if the shooting lessons with father two years ago had done any good. It couldn’t be that hard, she was sure, as his target was not moving and he was standing right in front of him. But she did as she was told, going to stand at Robb’s shoulder.

“Wait for me in the car.”

“No.”

He did not argue.

 

+

 

Someone mistakes them for a couple, somewhere just outside of Omaha, Nebraska. They’re sitting on barstools together at a counter, their sneakered feet swinging loosely over the red and white checkered floor. She twists back and forth in her seat, restless and bored.

Robb orders a milkshake for himself and a Coke for Sansa. She sucks it down in no time flat, because she knows that if she doesn’t, Robb will give her a look and ask her twenty questions, because that’s what he always does.

She thinks it would probably be better if she _didn’t_ finish all of her food every time. She was certain she was headed for heart disease, or maybe diabetes.

She sets her glass down on the counter and then braces herself on her chair, preparing to spin. Just as she starts to turn, Robb catches her by the elbow with his hand, eyes tired and voice firm.

“Sansa,” he warns.

She rolls her eyes, slapping him away. She turns again, spinning forcefully. The world goes blurry and her stomach sloshes from the soda and the spinning. As she finally slows, twisting slowly back to face Robb, he grabs her by the shoulders, stopping her in place. She laughs then, high and girly and almost hysterical. He cannot hide his smile then.

A voice from behind pulls them both back. “Anything else for you lovers?”

Sansa hurries to the car as Robb leaves the tip.

 

+

 

It isn’t always bad. There are good days, when the sun is high and the spirits are higher. Sometimes, she forgets who they are and where they are and why they are. Sometimes, everything is just some grand adventure, with no destination or end in sight.

Their car is dusty and they are sweaty. The heat is thick and the radio is loud. Most days, the sky is clear and the road is too. It is just the two of them, dusty and sweaty and alone with each other.

Some nights, they just sleep in the car. Robb is too tired to continue and he does not let Sansa drive at night. There is nothing for miles in either direction, and sometimes, the reclining seats in the car are more comfortable than anything the motel rooms have to offer them.

Those nights are the quietest, with stretching silence and the still air of the car. She can hear Robb breathing, soft and even. The heat is like a blanket, almost comforting.

But some days, those are the worst days of all, because then Sansa wonders what will happen to them when summer ends.

 

+

 

She remembers that it had only taken one bullet, but that Robb had fired four.

But that is all she remembers.

 

+

 

Some days, they are just a brother and a sister at a diner, sitting on opposite sides of a booth. His gaze does not linger and her hand does not wander towards him. She doesn’t eat from his plate. He does not reach out to her. There is easy, companionable silence between them.

Other days, they’re cousins sharing a motel room. He brings her food from the vending machine and she thanks him, pretending she likes living off chocolate bars and peanut butter crackers. She laughs despite everything, poking at him with fingertips stained bright orange by processed cheese dust.

Sometimes, they’re friends with a history they don’t talk about, smiling at each other through the dusty haze of the Midwest as it flies through their open car windows. He sings to the radio and she covers her ears, howling about how he’s never been able to carry a tune.

But most days, it is just a boy and a girl and the open road.

+

 

It takes four weeks, but there is a day when they do not hear their names on the radio.

Sansa suspects everyone has forgotten.

She knows that she never will.

 

+

 

She sits in the gravel at the side of the road, her arms wrapped around her legs as she watches Robb change a flat tire. She rests her chin atop her knees, trying to learn something as Robb goes through the motions. But she can’t pick up on anything, and she forgets each step just as soon as he moves to the next, because her mind is foggy as it usually is lately.

She is bored more often than not. Her life has become an endless blur of asphalt, gas stations, packaged food, and dingy motels. Sometimes, they stay for awhile in a place, just running around in circles. Every day is the same: Robb’s tires eating as much blacktop as they can while Sansa reclines in her seat, trying to forget where and who she is these days.

There is no good answer to either.

She becomes everything she hadn’t been before. She is transforming, she’s sure, but into what, she cannot say. She makes a mental list of everything that is new to her. She keeps track of everything that is changing her, and gives a name to all the things she is experiencing for the first time.

She finds a hundred new ways to describe herself, though she doesn’t particularly like any of them.

_Dirty. Disgusting. Exhausted. Terrified. Lost. Aimless. Listless. Hopeless. Hungry._

For the first time in her life, she is hungry. The kind of hungry that never leaves. She wants a real meal. She wants roast. She wants steak. She wants to eat something with the option of seconds. She wants something bought in a store, prepared at home, and served on a dining room table.

She wonders if she will ever have that again.

She has a near permanent stomach ache from sugary carbonation and constant devouring of things that only come out of a plastic bag. Sometimes they eat at restaurants, but they are never the nice ones. They eat cheap and quick and greasy.

But she is silly and stupid and aching for something more than food, she knows. Robb feeds her often and well and makes sure she never has to ask for anything, though she cannot ask for all she needs and he certainly couldn’t give it.

Or shouldn’t.

He is doing everything and she is more grateful to him than she can express with words. So she sits there, watching him, thinking about how she never knew he could change a tire but she is so glad that he can.

He looks strange to her with his hair buzzed so short. He looks sharper than he did before; if she didn’t know him, she would say he looks mean, though she cannot blame that on the haircut.

Instead she blames Petyr Baelish, and the way he had stolen things that had never been meant for him.

Robb stands suddenly, tugging his shirt off with one hand. He discards it carelessly and it falls beside her, sweaty and smelly and sour. His skin is damp and glistening under the afternoon sun, sweat dripping down his back and chest. He wipes perspiration from his brow and then shakes his hands off before turning back to the tire, ready to work once again.

All at once, Sansa is hungrier.

 

+

 

She never feels clean. She suspects Petyr is to blame for that too.

She showers every chance she gets. She douses herself in shampoos and soaps and creams. Whatever they have at the hotel, she makes the most of, determined to wash off whatever it is that lingers on her skin.

She does not own pajamas anymore. She sleeps in Robb’s shirts, which have somehow become one of the few comforts left to her in the world. The smell of him overwhelms the memory of Petyr, sweeter and richer and deeper than anything she had ever associated with the older man.

Weak and defenseless and dreaming, he comes to her still. She thrashes in her sleep, crying out and gasping at the feeling of unwanted pressure, right at her core, pushing and forcing and taking. Even in death, he cannot not let her rest.

But now there is a hard body to turn to, a greater force she can roll over to face.

Robb always loops an arm around her easily, pulling her flat against him.

 

+

 

Sansa has never known Robb better than she does now. There is nothing she wonders about, nothing she does not know. They haven’t been apart in weeks. She has not spoken to anyone but him in days. She’s hardly spoken to anybody else at all, really. He is always there and she is always beside him.

They cannot afford privacy anymore. She knows everything there is to know, because life on the road and in and out of motel rooms leaves everything bare and wide open. She knows the good and the bad. She knows things she does not want to know, and never thought that she would.

She knows the sound of him loading a gun. She knows the sound of him firing that same gun. She knows what he looks like splattered with blood. She knows what it sounds like when he screams her name, ordering her to get away from Petyr, to stand back, to run, get in the car.

She knows that he takes care of himself in the shower, most mornings more often than not. She knows he does it more now than he did two or three weeks ago, and she suspects she knows why. She knows what he feels like when he’s hard, because she is always pressed against him when she wakes up, when he is only just beginning to stir.

She knows what it’s like when they’re both still asleep, half in and half out, breathing in each other’s faces and forgetting who the other is, maybe almost. She knows that sometimes his hands slip lower than they should. She knows his fingers are greedy, digging into her hips. She knows that it is wrong and she knows the shame all too well, but she also knows she does not ever push him away.

 

+

 

He was splattered with blood after, just on his shirt.

 

+

 

She is already nearly naked when he grows bolder. They’re side by side in bed, the TV playing in the background, the volume low. He’s left the curtains open for once, which surprises her since they have a room at ground level, with an outside entry and a questionable chain lock. The only light is from the TV screen and the flashing _vacancy_ sign outside. It gives everything a reddish, hazy glow.

“Do you miss mom?”

Sansa gives the best answer she has, which suits most any question he asks of her these days. “Yes and no.”

Robb does not respond. He only looks at her, eyes dropping to her lips as his fingers find hers. He rubs at her skin gently, following the path of wrist to elbow crease to shoulder. He skims his fingers beneath the shoulder of the shirt she’s wearing, testing the waters of skin on skin.

She cannot make the first move, so she leaves it to him, as she leaves most everything to him now. Robb knows best and she follows his lead because he is her older brother and that is what a sister does.

So she stares at him, just waiting. She is lonely and desperate and hungry. There is nothing and no one for miles and miles. The only person in the world who cares for her is lying right beside her, fingers brushing her skin.

Nothing is the same. Everything has changed. She isn’t even Sansa Stark anymore. She has not spoken her true name in weeks. Robb has not called her his sister in days. Maybe they aren’t even a brother and a sister anymore. Maybe it only counts if someone knows it to be true. She knows nothing to be true anymore.

He moves his hand to her stomach, flattening it against her. He pushes upward, beneath the grey of his own shirt, to knead at her breast. She’s certain he must feel her heart hammering. She knows she’s holding her breath. She’s flat on her back and he’s lying on his side, head supported by an arm propped up on the bed. He looks down at her, gauging her reaction.

She arches her back a little, forcing herself up against the palm of his hand. He draws his fingers along her skin, index finger and thumb gliding gently into feather light tug at her nipple. She breathes out then, both relieved and surprised. It’s an unfamiliar touch, but a pleasant one all the same.

He leans toward her then, moving his arm to lift her chin upwards so that he can kiss her. She opens her mouth for him easily, wrapping her long fingers around his wrist to hold him in place at her mouth. She has always liked kissing, though she had never done much of it, and she can tell Robb is a practiced man. He is better than Petyr, who had insisted on kisses but had nothing to show for his age and alleged life experience. But that does not surprise her.

They only kiss that night, and that is the most surprising of all.

 

+

 

Robb has bad dreams too, sometimes. He never calls them that, but he wakes with a startling gasp, sitting upright all of the sudden. He does not need to name it for Sansa to know. She scoots closer to him when it happens, tightening her grip on his hand.

“You’re braver than I’ll ever be,” she tells Robb once. “I never could’ve done what you did. You saved me.”

Robb only looks at her. He does not say a word.

 

+

 

She kicks off her shoes in the floorboard. It is only the two of them in the dim light of Robb’s car. She can hardly make out any of her brother’s features in the passing glow from street lamps and stoplights, but she does not need to see to know what is there. Her brother is so familiar to her that she is sure she can trace his face by memory as though it were her own.

When he pulls off to the side of the road, at the very edge of some city she has already forgotten the name of, she knows that he is thinking of the other night, because she is thinking of it too. The passing city lights have all faded, giving way to an all consuming black that covers the both of them.

She can no longer see him. She can only feel the slow approach of his hand as it creeps toward her. Her body seems to thrum in anticipation, knowing what is coming and still wondering all the same. His hand seems to split the thick air of the car right in two on its path towards her.

And then it is on her knee, sliding up her thigh, gliding up to the zipper of her shorts, just waiting.

In the dark, things are different. It is blacker than pitch in the car, too dark to even see her own hand right in front of her face. Maybe it isn’t even Robb sitting beside her after all. Maybe it is someone else. She could claim she didn’t know, or blame the trauma she had faced back home. Petyr had pushed her to this, she could say, if anyone even asked.

But no one would ask. No one would even know.

So when he asks if it’s okay, if it feels good, all she can do is give a fervent nod.

He reaches across her, fumbling at the release on her seat. When he finds it, she feels herself falling backwards, stretched out on her back in the seat like some regular high school girl in her boyfriend’s car.  She raises her arms above her head, gripping onto the headrest with all her might.

He leans towards her, close enough that Sansa can feel the moist heat of his breath on her skin. He touches her then, very gently, brushing the back of his finger across the red heat on her cheek. She feels feverish, both breathless and expectant. He runs his finger down across the line of her jaw and then brings it to her lips, smoothing it over them in a lover’s caress.

Her lips part, tongue briefly darting out to lick lightly at his skin. She hears what might be a laugh, or maybe just a wavering breath of air through his lips. Either way, it is something, and it’s better than what she’s had before, which was Petyr and his insistence.

It had been funny at first. It didn’t even seem real. He had been fascinated with her, she knew, but she hadn’t thought it would come to anything. She didn’t know who he was then, or what he was capable of.

And by the time it was happening to her, it was more than she could say. There weren’t enough words for what he had done to her. It had taken her weeks to tell Robb, and even longer to admit to herself that it had gone far beyond what it ever should have.   

“Sansa.”

She blinks at him.

 “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

But she can’t speak, because Petyr has his hand over her mouth again, and he’s at her ear and everywhere, whispering and filling her with everything he can think of to pull her away from Robb and take her somewhere else. His game had been control, planting ideas and thoughts and letting them sprout and grow into a life of their own. And he had left a thousand seeds in the soil of Sansa’s mind.

But something else is already blossoming. Not in her mind, but in her ribcage, deep down in the black of her being. Underneath her heart, something is growing, up and out through the hollows between her ribs, ready to burst right through her skin.

She can’t say it, but she can show it. She reaches for the hand that waits at her lips, bringing it to grab at her breast through her bra. Petyr had touched her deeper, seen her barer, but it had never been electric the way this is. Robb is something good, something else entirely.

He pulls her towards him, gripping the hem of her tank top and pulling it over her head. He casts it aside and then wraps his arms around her, unclipping her bra so that he can throw it to the backseat too. He gathers her hair then, pulling it all over one shoulder so that he can palm her bare breasts.

He slides his hands down her ribs, down the flat of her stomach, to the zipper of her shorts once again. This time, he does not hesitate, only pulls the zipper down as Sansa arches her back, lifting her ass up off the seat so that he might pull them off of her.

Then she is down to just her panties in the passenger seat of her brother’s car. He pushes them to the side, one finger dragging against her, separating her folds until he finds the slickness that allows him to slip against her easily. Sansa shudders, a long breath hissing out as she relaxes into his touch. He adds two fingers, creating a flat pad to work against her, up and down.  

For once, she does not think of Petyr.

Her breathing slips into a labored rhythm. Her heart hammers, quickening with the time of his fingers. She just stares at him and he stares at her, watching her face as it flushes pink with pleasure.

Her hand goes to his free one, gripping hard as she nears the edge, ready to tip over.

And then she is wrecked, with a little cry, arched body dropping and sinking low in her seat.

 

+

 

She catches her reflection in the mirror as she emerges from the shower one day. Her hair is red at the roots once again.

 

+

 

“You killed him.”

Sansa looks at him over the tops of her sunglasses, brow furrowed.

“What you said the other day…” Robb begins. “You saved yourself, in the end. Don’t you remember?”

She can hear the sound of one shot, ringing in her ears, and then the sound of three more.

 

+

 

She wrapped her hand around him, gripping the gun over his hand. Robb did not look at her; he only pulled away from it gently, until she could feel nothing but her own finger on the trigger.

She pointed it at Petyr Baelish, wondering how her aim was. He was talking then, all of the sudden. She didn’t hear it. If he had thought he had found a sympathetic audience, he was wrong.

She only fired once.

 

+

 

She spreads her legs over his, sinking down slowly with the quietest cry.

Robb runs his fingers through her hair, gripping the length of it with all his might. It has grown long once again, and he has not asked her to dye it darker even though the color has faded considerably, giving way to a very noticeable redness.

She sees the reflection of their gyrating bodies in the mirror on the wall in front of the bed. She knots her fingers in his curls. His finger traces the line of her spine, running down, down, down. He grips her bottom hard, lifting and lowering her with everything he has.

“Sansa,” he gasps.

It sounds strange in her ears, but she finishes at the sound of her own name.

 

+

 

She knows they have changed direction.

“Where are we going?”

“East.”

 

+

 

Color paints the trees, she notices as they drive. They’re somewhere on I-80, in Indiana. They haven’t slept in the car for a very long time, since it has grown colder during the day and even colder at night.

When she mentions longer sleeves and sweaters, he takes her to a mall and hands her a wad of cash that she does not question, though she wants to. She has never asked about the money, or where he got it, or how much is left.

He lets her buy tights and knee high boots. He allows her scarves and dresses and cowl necked sweaters.

All things that Sansa would’ve worn.

 

+

 

He took the gun from her, his hand shaking. He aims at the body on the floor and fires three more times.

 

+

 

Everything grows clearer in her mind. Fuzzy edges become hard lines. It all grows sharper. The past and the present do not coverage. For once, there is clarity.

She knows where they are headed, roughly. Robb has mentioned New York twice, though he has mentioned Maine and Connecticut as well. East, at least, she is certain of.

He stops at a pharmacy, leaving her in the running car as he had so long ago. He does not ask her to lock the doors, but she does anyway. When he taps on the window, signaling for her to let him in, she sees that he is holding a box of auburn hair dye in one hand and a bag of lemon drops in the other.

As Robb gets back on the highway, Sansa notices there are snowflakes melting on the windshield. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah this is definitely the second roadtrip au I've done and I'm kind of sorry but not really and it probably won't be the last so here we are. Title is from Ride by Lana del Rey.


End file.
